In The Still Of The Night
by ColieMacKenzie
Summary: OneShot. Post Paraguay, Harm's still working for the CIA. Mac struggles with the pain and her secret fears for him... Shipper BandAid included.


**In The Still Of The Night**

**Disclaimer: **JAG and its characters do not belong to me. I'm just borrowing them for my and hopefully other people's entertainment. So please don't sue – my bank account is already sporting a big fat minus!

**AN:** Written for the HBX January Challenge. The lines to be used are indicated in italics throughout the text and are from the episode "Retreat, Hell".

**AN:** This is set in early season 9, when Harm was working for the CIA, and there was no contact between Harm and Mac. Mac struggles with the pain and her secret fears for Harm. Mac's POV. Applying a 'shipper band-aid' (I read that term somewhere and found it very fitting!) to an awful time. I hope you will like it. Please enjoy!

**o o o o o o**

**In The Still Of The Night**

The first time it happened, she didn't come farther than his front door. Repetitive knocking triggered no response. Either he wasn't home, or he wouldn't open. It was the middle of the night after all. Head in turmoil, she leaned her back against his door, then slid down, her butt landing painfully on the unforgiving ground, her head dropping on her knees. She wrapped her arms around her legs, but nothing could ward off the cold that was with her constantly these days.

She awoke hours later. Lying on her side, curled up like a baby in a mother's womb, still in front of his door. Every bone in her body hurt. Fingers and toes numb. Dried salty tracks caked her cheeks from tears she didn't know she had cried. It was approaching morning. She carefully unfolded her limbs and got up. No sign of life from him. Her hand went up, leaning flatly against the door as if it could provide the answers she was looking for. She put her forehead against the door as well. Her whole body clenched with the onset of emotional turmoil that was never far from her either. It threatened whenever she allowed herself a minute of quiet. So she hardly ever did. She took deep breaths, willing down the tears. What was she doing here anyways? This was ridiculous. Silly. Painful. Hopeless. Forcefully, she pushed away from his door and headed home. She had to get ready for work.

Yet that same night, she was back. It was late. Or early, depending on the point of view. She knocked. There was no answer. She hadn't seen him in a long time. She had left messages; he never returned her calls. Coming here was her last hope. She debated with herself for a while, but couldn't stop herself. She dug around in her purse for his spare key. Her hand shaking, she inserted the key in the hole and quietly opened the door. She couldn't bring herself to turn on any lights. Scanning his open living space, she instantly realized that he wasn't home. His bed was empty, the covers straightened. Everything was orderly, almost sterile, as if nobody had been here in quite a while. She choked and the tears were back. Where was he?

She awoke on his couch when the first light of dawn was peaking in through the windows. She tried to get her bearings, then quickly got up and straightened the couch cushions. She didn't want to leave a sign that anybody had been here in case he came back. Oh how she wished he'd be back. Even if she was never to see him again, she desperately needed to know if he was alive at least. Alive and well.

She got braver the next night. No longer did she debate whether or not to enter his apartment. When her knock remained unanswered, she unlocked the door and called his name. Her voice sounded croaky and not her own. Her call elicited no response. Not that she had expected an answer as it was. In the dark, she made her way through his apartment. Her fingers trailed over the covers at the foot of his bed while she passed by it and into his bathroom. Her rational mind told her she was grossly invading his privacy. But rationality had long since been overruled.

His smell still lingered in the air. For a while, she simply stood in the middle of the small space. Then she moved to his shower stall and sniffed on his shower gel, his shampoo. Next to the shower hung his bathrobe. She burrowed her face in it. Her knees buckled from the pure essence of him. Suddenly she felt so weak and exhausted that she could no longer uphold herself. She tumbled out of the bathroom and towards his bed. As if her body was no longer her own, she climbed on top of his covers. Her arms reached out and grabbed one of his pillows. She hugged it close to her body and burrowed her face in it as well. Tears streamed down her face and were soaked up by the fabric.

When had life become such a mess, and would anything ever feel right again? Nobody had heard from him. Was he even still alive? Would she ever find out, now that he worked for the CIA? Nothing would ever be the same, and it was all her fault.

From that night on, she slept at his place. Every day she would tell herself that it was the last time. Every evening, she'd go home, follow her usual bedtime routine. She'd go to bed, and sleep wouldn't come. She'd toss and turn. Wondering where he was. Worrying that something had happened. Questioning if she would see him again. Craving his company. Aching for something they never had. And missing him so much that she thought she couldn't breathe anymore.

Then she'd get up in the middle of the night, throw her long coat over her pajamas, and drive over to his apartment. Hoping he would be there. Or at least finding signs that he had been back in between. With every day that passed where he wasn't home, her fear grew. So did her desperation to feel close to him. She'd climb into his bed, under his covers, allowing herself to be lulled into sleep by his smell and his things surrounding her. His bed had become the only place where she could find some sleep.

Her moods and thoughts were completely off the map. She would be angry at him for not contacting anybody. She could understand that he didn't contact her, but why not anybody else? So they'd at least know he was still alive. Then the sadness would overwhelm her. They had lost a friendship that should have lasted a lifetime. She had promised him once, no matter what, he would never lose her, and she had broken this promise. Broken it by spiteful words and regrettable actions. Sometimes she'd remember that his words had been just as spiteful. That he hadn't been able to decipher his actions with words. And her own insecurities didn't allow her to interpret those actions the way she craved them to be. But then the feelings of guilt would overpower anything else. He had lost everything because of her. It was her fault that he worked for the CIA now, it would be her fault if he died and became a star at their blasted wall, and nobody would even know.

She entered his apartment and immediately knew that something was different. Scanning the space, she noticed that the kitchen had been used, and clothes were scattered over the back of the couch. His clothes. She tiptoed in the direction of his bedroom. When she was closer, she could make out his tall form stretched out on the bed. Relief swamped over her in waves. She should leave. She knew that he was alive. Wasn't that the reason she had come over every night? She had her answer. She should turn around and leave. Instead, on their own volition, her legs moved closer to him, climbed up the few steps to his bedroom, and only stopped when she was standing next to the bed.

Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of him. He was lying on his stomach, half covered by his sheets. One long naked leg was sticking out from under it. Most of his upper body was uncovered as well; no sheet and no shirt obscured her view of his form. In the dark only broken by the streetlight filtering in through the windows, she could make out his strong muscles heaving and sighing with every deep breath he took. The thought that he might be completely naked under that sheet made her whole body tingle. She leaned closer, slightly over, to sneak a peak at his face. It seemed thinner, somehow. And despite the darkness, she could make out the dark circles under his eyes, testimony to a bone-deep exhaustion.

Before she realized what she was doing, she had already taken off her coat. She chided herself to put it back on and leave. She had no right to be there. Instead, her fingers moved over her pajama top, unbuttoning the top button, then the next, and the next, until all were opened and the top joined her coat on the floor. It was as if she was in a daze, no longer in control of her actions. Her thoughts were in turmoil, overflowing with happiness, and fear, and love; pain, and longing, and desperation.

Warmth pooled in her lower belly, every muscle in her body seemed to weaken. This was desire. And love. Pure, unadulterated love. She could finally recognize the feelings she had curbed for years. They had invaded her body from the first time she met him, and had only grown in strength.

She knew she had ruined any chance they ever had, but the need to touch him, to feel his skin close to hers, was overwhelming, overriding any rational thoughts that might have been left somewhere in her head. Even as she pulled her tank top over her head, she tried to talk herself into leaving, to stop this behavior that could only lead to trouble, but to no avail. It joined the growing pile on the floor, leaving her upper body as bare as his. The drawstrings of her pajama bottoms were untied and the pants dropped down her legs. She stepped out of them and her shoes at the same time, leaving her in only her panties.

Don't do it, she tried to tell herself, but instead her arm reached out and her hand grasped a corner of the sheet. Get dressed and leave, her mind argued, yet her body climbed in the bed and under the sheet right next to him. She scooted closer to his strong, wonderful body. Closer again. Until their bodies touched. She was laying half on her side, and half on top of his back. Her naked breasts pressed against his bare skin, making the tips tingle and contract. She slid her arm around his waist, and her hand came to rest on his chest. She hadn't been this comfortable in… She didn't think she had ever been this comfortable. She knew it was a stolen moment, but she hoped it would last her a lifetime. Prepare her for a life without him.

Her heart almost stopped, but then beat even more wildly when his hand covered hers on top of his chest. It was the only movement he made though; he was still fast asleep. Then the murmuring began. Undistinguishable sounds at first. She held her breath, tried to lie completely still. She wasn't prepared for him to wake up.

"_What are you doing?"_ he muttered, his voice low and slurred, the words almost incomprehensible, and held her arm tighter to his chest. Nothing else followed. Silence once again claimed the room, only broken by his deep calm breaths. Relieved, she allowed herself to exhale. He had been talking in his sleep. What _was_ she doing? She didn't have a clue. His chest hair tickled her palm, his warmth permeated through her. She scooted closer to him still, until they were plastered together, skin on skin. She laid her forehead against his shoulder blades and closed her eyes.

"_Making sure it's you," _she whispered against his back, her breath fanning over his skin in warm gusts. Light goose bumps crawled over his back, then faded away just as quickly. Hot tears spilled out from under her lashes; she didn't think she'd have any left. She hadn't cried as much in the last at least fifteen years or so as she had these last days. All the pent-up emotions seeped out of her body and down his back. She had missed him so much. She tightened her arm around him, hugging him closer to her. God, she loved him so much. She wished she had been brave enough to tell him. Instead she had said something else, something stupid, and ruined any chance they might have had together. Exhausted and drained, she fell into a dreamless, deep sleep.

She awoke when a heavy weight landed on top of her, pressing her down into the mattress. Her eyes flew open and she found herself looking directly into his piercing stare. He seemed confused and angry. Her heart started beating rapidly, robbing her of her breath. A myriad of sensations overwhelmed her all at once. His hot, hard body was cradled between her legs, rubbing intimately against hers. Her arms were stretched over her head, held tightly in place by his strong grip. She couldn't move at all. Completely vulnerable to him. But she wasn't afraid. She could never be afraid of him. Desire pooled warmly in her lower body, and it took all her self-constraint to keep completely still and not lift her hips closer to his.

"This doesn't feel like _never_ to me," he rasped at her. His other arm held him hovering above her, but he was so close that his chest hair tickled her breasts and she could feel his breath on her face.

Helplessly, she could only shake her head, her eyes never leaving his.

"I… I didn't mean it," she croaked, her voice barely audible.

"What _did_ you mean?" His eyes were dark and piercing. He was angry. She couldn't blame him. The truth was that she didn't even understand what she had meant with that stupid comment at that stupid taxi stand down there in Paraguay. It had all been too much. And then it came out, and he was gone, and everything went down the drain.

"I don't know," she whispered. It was obvious he didn't like that answer. His hand held her wrists tighter while he looked away from her face, staring up at his wall. She had to keep him close though; this was quite likely their only shot to fix this mess they had created. She wrapped one of her legs around his hips, bringing him tighter against her body. Her movement made him stare at her again, his eyes full of questions. His breathing was as labored as hers. She wished that he'd let go of her hands so she could touch his face.

"All I know," she implored, "is that right now I'm not on top and I can't imagine a more perfect place to be. Physically _and_ emotionally." His close proximity was making her head spin. She suddenly remembered that apart from a scrap of fabric she was completely naked. Subconsciously, she licked her lips, anticipating, hoping, desiring.

"Oh God, Sarah…" He rasped. And then he kissed her. Deeply. Passionately. His lips claimed hers with force, all consuming. She opened herself to him immediately, no longer able or willing to hold anything back. His tongue swept into her mouth; exploring everything she was and could be. Passion flared. Desire built. This was what she had wanted, yearned, _needed_, for years. What they should have done in that hotel room in Paraguay. Their mouths held the discussions they had never been able to have with words. And the conclusions were more satisfying than they ever thought they could be. He claimed her as his, and never had she surrendered more willingly. She whimpered into his mouth, overwhelmed by the sheer fervor of their union. She needed him closer, but couldn't move; her hands still stretched and held high above her head. Intuitively, her hips bucked against him. He moaned, a low feral sound deep in his throat, and their kiss deepened once more.

When the sheer need for oxygen broke them apart, he practically deflated on top of her. He let go of her hands and dropped his head down on her chest. They were both breathing heavily. She tunneled one of her hands through his mussed-up hair; the other went to his back, drawing circles over his heated skin, holding him tightly to her. It felt so right to have him in her arms, so perfect. She could feel the tension of the past weeks, months, seeping out of his body. By the same measure, hope was surging back into her. Hope that all wasn't lost between them. That he'd forgive her. That he felt for her what she did for him.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered over and over while her fingertips explored the hard planes of his muscled back. She could feel him relax under her ministrations and when he seemed to have calmed down, she took his face in her hands and brought it back up to look at her. It was impossible to hide her feelings for him any longer.

"_Harm_," she whispered, "I don't want to live without you anymore." Her fingers trailed over his eyebrows, his cheekbones, down over his chin. He suddenly rolled them over and she found herself lying on top of him. He wrapped his arms tightly around her waist. Then he finally smiled at her. His amazing, knee-weakening, full-blown flyboy smile.

"You're right, it's quite comfortable down here at the bottom," he winked.

And then he kissed her again. Slow and tender this time. First one corner of her mouth, then the other. Then his lips grazed over hers in a gentle exploration. His tongue traced the contours of her lips, and when he reached their seam, she opened up to him, body, mind, and soul. His fingertips trailed up and down her back, over her neck, down to her waist, over her hips, making her skin tingle. Sweet, intoxicating, tender, loving. Love.

She lifted slightly off him, breaking the kiss. She looked at him, her eyes roving over his face, then settled on his eyes.

"I love you, Harm." She smiled. He wanted to say something in return, but she put her finger to his lips, silencing him.

"Shhh, don't say anything now. I don't need the words anymore. I finally understand the actions." It was her gift to him. Finally comprehending what she hadn't been able to see. And trusting it. She replaced her finger with her lips and kissed him deeply, pouring all her love for this man into the passionate embrace. One he returned with fervor. That quickly grew into so much more, spiraling off into the unknown with all their need and want and years of held-back tension. She was aching for him, all of him.

He flipped them again, then began exploring her body with his hands and his mouth. Bringing her higher and higher, to places she'd never been before. That she could reach _only _with him. She studied him by feel and touch; his beautiful, hard, sensual body. Together, they perfected their relationship. Perfected the way to love. United in the most intimate and intense way possible. Ended years of jealousy, insecurities, misunderstandings, curbed feelings. An intense culmination of years of tension and desire. The new beginning to a love that had been in the making since the day they met. And it would last a lifetime.

_THE END_


End file.
